by John Creasey
When they were alone but for the waiter, Rollison looked into the fresh gaiety of Marion-Liz’s eyes.
‘Have you seen Eddie-Harry?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t talk about him.’
‘He’s flown.’
‘What?’ cried Marion-Liz.
‘He paid his bill, which makes the hotel lucky, and left half an hour before we arrived,’ said Rollison. ‘You can have a carefree holiday, and teach me how to swim. And things. Unless you think I’d be reforming you.’
She touched his hand.
‘Rolly,’ she said. ‘May I call you Rolly?’
‘Provided you keep the O short and not long.’
‘Rolly,’ she said, ‘let’s strike a bargain. Pretend that nothing happened this morning, that I didn’t make a confession. I can afford to stay until the end of the week, and I think it will be fun, but not if—’
‘Not if I’m full of reforming zeal. It’s a deal, Liz!’
All went according to plan, until Thursday. Rollison’s scepticism remained at a distance, but in sight. Occasionally he allowed himself to think about the missing buoy – which was found in one of the inlets on the Wednesday, and apparently mystified no one else – and the watchfulness of Eddie-Harry.
They danced at a nearby roadhouse on the Wednesday evening, it was half past two before he turned the sleek nose of his Rolls-Bentley into the garage of the hotel. He left a ‘Do Not Disturb’ notice outside the door, and went to sleep – and woke, when it was bright day, to a loud cry.
He had the trick of waking to complete wakefulness, slid out of bed and reached the window as the cry was repeated.
At the end of the long garden, partly hidden by a yew-hedge of great renown, stood Marion-Liz and a red-headed youth. A big youth. He had a hand on each of Marion-Liz’s shoulders, and was shaking her. She cried out again, but made a sound like gug-gug-gug. The red-head shook her more violently and her head went to and fro, she raised her hands as if to fend him off, but couldn’t manage it. At last he pushed her away, and she fell against the hedge.
The red-head dusted his hands.
Rollison heard his words clearly.
‘Now perhaps that’ll shake some sense into you. You’re going to do what I tell you.’
Marion-Liz was too breathless to answer.
‘So go pack your bags,’ said the red-head.
By then a gardener and an elderly woman guest who seldom left the grounds appeared beneath the window. Both were in a hurry. As they reached the yew-hedge Marion-Liz straightened up and the red-head took her arm. They walked towards the hotel, ignoring the couple, who stood and watched them pass. Rollison put on his dressing-gown. He was on the landing when Marion-Liz came up the stairs. She wore a cream-coloured linen dress, simple and sweet; her hair was ruffled.
He blocked the passage.
‘One of your friends, Liz?’
‘He—oh, please.’
She made to push past again. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, soft and light.
‘Please,’ she repeated.
‘Obeying orders?’ asked Rollison.
She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall, as if she hadn’t any strength left. Next moment, a hand clasped Rollison’s shoulder, a muscular arm pulled him round, and a pugnacious face, topped by the red hair of the young man, was thrust into his.
‘None of your business,’ he said. ‘Hurry, Marion.’
She went obediently along to her room. The red-head had not released Rollison, but did so when the girl’s door closed. He had an attractive, homely face – some would have called him ugly – a milky complexion, a few freckles, and green eyes; fine green eyes. His lips were full.
‘Don’t get in her way again,’ he said. ‘You might get hurt.’
Rollison smiled gently and murmured that he was sorry, and held out his hand. The red-head was surprised into taking it. Rollison gripped and twisted. The red-head drew in a hissing breath. He stood with one knee bent and his arm turned upwards and had the sense not to move.
Rollison let him go.
‘I am sorry, really. I should hate you to get rough with me. Marion isn’t coming with you, she’d much rather rest here. Good morning.’
The red-head’s eyes blazed angrily, and he bunched sizeable fists. Rollison prepared for trouble – but didn’t need to. The youth dropped his arms, backed a pace, opened his mouth in a wide ‘O’. He looked into Rollison’s with an expression normally found on a bamboozled child’s face.
‘Good lord!’ breathed the red-head. ‘You’re Rollison. The Rollison. Great Scott! You’re just the man to help knock some sense into Marion. This couldn’t be better!’
III
REFORMER’S ZEAL
The young man gripped Rollison’s hand and shook it vigorously, glanced at an open door and led the way towards it, words bubbling out of him.
‘Trust me to put my foot in it. I’ll bet nothing like that’s happened to Marion for twenty years! Which is your room?’
‘Next door,’ said Rollison.
‘You could have told me.’
‘You could have let me get a word in edgeways.’
‘Oh, lor’,’ said the red-haired young man with a most attractive grimace. ‘I’m always talking too much, it’s the Irish blood in me, I suppose. May I go in?’ He thrust open Rollison’s door and stepped inside, swept his gaze round, and went across to the window. ‘Sea view and everything, eh? Nice pub, this. I say, you’re up a bit sluggish, aren’t you? It’s after nine.’
‘I was out late last night.’
‘You old dog!’ The young man winked and then became earnest, gripping Rollison’s arm again. ‘I say, you can do me a heck of a favour. You’re just the man she might listen to. Marion, I mean. I can talk in absolute confidence, can’t I? I mean, a man like you wouldn’t go talking to the police and all that kind of thing, or let a girl down, would you?’
‘Try me,’ suggested Rollison, and lit a cigarette.
‘Sure. Well, it’s like this.’ The young man’s expression might have been that of his grandfather. ‘I’m in love with Marion Lane. I don’t give a damn what she’s done in the past, I want to steer her on to the straight and narrow. But she takes some steering! I’ve argued and reasoned and pleaded, done everything except go down on my knees to her, but it was n.b.g. So I’ve changed tactics and I’m getting tough.’
‘So I’ve noticed,’ said Rollison dryly.
‘I say, did you see it? Look here, don’t you think the rough tactics might work where everything else has failed?’
‘It would be a help if I knew what you were talking about,’ said Rollison.
‘But hang it, I—’
‘And who you are.’
The young man raised his hands and let them fall heavily, gave his attractive grin again, and went to a chair and sat down. At the same moment there was a tap at the door. A chamber-maid, smart and pretty, came in with tea; there were two cups.
‘I heard you were up, sir, and I know how you like your morning tea.’
‘Gertrude, you’re a gem,’ said Rollison. ‘Magnificent! Do you think I could have breakfast up here, too? In half an hour, say.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Gertrude beamed and went out.
‘They look after you, don’t they?’ said the young man.
‘You were going to tell me who you are and what this is all about.’ Rollison started to pour out. ‘Like a cup?’
‘Well, I don’t mind if I do. No sugar. As a matter of fact, I haven’t had any breakfast. I didn’t find out where Marion was until late last night, and started off at dawn. Drove like stink to get down here, too. She hasn’t been up to anything, has she?’
Rollison took him his tea, but didn’t answer.
‘Thanks. I see what you mean. Well, I’m just an ordinary cove, by the name of Reginald Rowse. Run my own little business and make quite a good thing of it. Family don’t like it much, they thought I ought to have gone into the family
show – the law. Not on your life! I—great Scott!’
He gaped.
‘Now what?’
‘Reginald Rowse – Richard Rollison. R.R. We’re almost twins!’
‘Not quite,’ said Rollison solemnly. ‘What’s your business?’
‘Cigarettes and tobacco. I’ve several London shops, and a few in the provinces. Side lines too, of course. I do very nicely, thank you. The thing is …’ He gulped down his tea. ‘Oh, heck! I suppose you met Marion down here, just by chance.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What do you think of her?’
‘What would most men think of her?’
‘That’s the trouble,’ said Reginald Rowse, with sudden descent to misery. ‘She isn’t what she seems. Oh, she’s lovely to look at, and she has a wonderful disposition. Trouble is, she had a nasty upset a few years ago. Her father. He was mixed up in some jewel swindle, more sinned against than sinning, you know. He was sent to jail for seven years. It kind of put the iron into her soul. She lost her mother very young, Pop was the only thing she lived for, and – well, she turned sour on society. Some people would say that she turned bad, but I don’t believe it. I’ve warned her a hundred times that she will only land in jail, and she laughs at me. She’s no fool, but she thinks she can cock a snook at the law. She’ll come unstuck, it’s inevitable. Don’t you agree?’
‘It has happened.’
‘Come off it,’ said Rowse. ‘You know damned well that she’s bound to come a cropper. She’s playing the fool. That’s how I met her. She works with a nasty little tyke with about a dozen names. They tried to swindle me – said they could get me big supplies of cigarettes and tobaccos at a special discount, had a consignment ready and waiting, all I had to do was pay cash on delivery. I may look a mug, but I’m careful. The lorry-load of stuff was junk, of course – the cartons looked all right, but there were dummies inside. I spotted this as soon as they’d unloaded, and chased after them, gave the little tyke a beating, and started to work on Marion. Look here, Rollison, what’s on your mind?’
‘When you expected to get cheap supplies, did you wonder if the goods were stolen?’
‘Oh, that,’ said Rowse carelessly. ‘It seemed a genuine business at first, they had wholesaler’s notepaper and all that sort of thing. I’m not a buyer of stolen stuff.’ He brushed the question aside. ‘The thing is, Marion. She won’t listen to me.’
‘How did you find out where she was?’
‘She sent a card to a girlfriend. I ran into the girlfriend last night. So here I am. It wouldn’t surprise me if the little tyke—’
‘What does he call himself?’
‘Harry Keller. Sandy-haired, pudge of a face, eyes like a babe’s. Looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. If we could break his hold over Marion, I think she’d go straight. She must.’ He looked at Rollison earnestly. ‘It means everything to me. I’ve sworn that I’ll get her thinking along the right lines if it costs me every penny I have.’
‘Marion isn’t in a mood to listen to moralising from me or anyone else,’ said Rollison. ‘You might shake her into a different frame of mind. It’s worth trying.’
Rowse was eager.
‘You really think so?’
‘Could be, yes. What do you intend doing this morning?’
‘I’m taking her back to London.’
‘Is she doing any harm here?’
Rowse chuckled.
‘You don’t know Marion! If it weren’t so damned silly or if it were someone else, I’d be tickled to death. She’s a wonderful line of talk, and she specialises in elderly widowers or elderly bachelors gay. They think they’re doing fine with her, and she walks off, leaving them poorer by a few hundred or even a few thousand. They don’t say anything because of looking foolish if anything ever came out. Anyhow, no one’s ever had a crack at her yet, but she’ll try her ‘fluence on the wrong man one of these days, and after that – well, I don’t want her to make that mistake. Can’t really expect you to help, of course, but if you do get any ideas, I’ll be eternally grateful. Well!’ He jumped up. ‘Better go and see how she’s getting on. The shock should be wearing off by now.’
He grinned, shook Rollison’s hand, and went out; he was humming to himself as he closed the door.
Rollison opened it an inch, poured himself out another cup of tea and sat on the side of the bed, and listened while scepticism came a little nearer; Reginald Rowse was almost too good to be true. Rollison listened to good purpose. The first sound was a sharp exclamation. The second, a decided slap. He smiled faintly and went to the door, opening it another inch.
Reginald Rowse was backing away from the open door of Marion-Liz’s room. His hands were covering his face, in self-defence. She struck at him fiercely. The fury of the attack drove him back along the passage.
‘For the hundredth time I don’t want to see your silly face again,’ said Marion-Liz. ‘I’m sick and tired of you, I hate the sight of you.’
‘Now, Marion—’
Rowse dropped his hands.
She slapped him twice on each cheek. Then she swung round, went into her room, and slammed and locked the door.
Rowse straightened up, a hand fingered his face gingerly.
He had turned beetroot red, and his eyes were smeared. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at them, turned slowly, caught sight of Rollison, and came forward miserably.
‘See that?’
‘Two people can get rough,’ murmured Rollison.
‘It’s hell. Of course I could have made hay of her, but couldn’t bring myself to it. Think I ought to have put her over my knee?’
‘She might have resisted,’ said Rollison mildly.
‘Hang it, what can I do?’
‘Let her have six months in jail.’
‘Damn it, I can’t do that,’ protested Rowse.
Before Rollison could speak, a man reached the top of the stairs – a heavily built man, dressed in a dark suit which made him look as if he were on business; certainly he wasn’t a guest. Behind him came a worried-looking middle-aged man – Proctor, owner of the Country House by the Sea.
‘Yes, she’s in, Inspector, but I can’t imagine what you want with her. She—’
He saw Rollison and Rowse, and stopped abruptly. They passed, on the way to Marion’s room. Rowse gripped Rollison’s arm very tightly, and spoke when they were out of earshot.
‘Did you hear that? Inspector. The police are after her. Oh, what a fool she’s been!’
IV
QUESTIONS
Rollison left his door ajar, so that he would hear when the inspector left Marion’s room, and whether he left alone. A door opened and closed and a man’s footsteps sounded, but not Marion’s. They drew near – and stopped. Rollison finished his tea and stood up as a tap came at the door.
‘Come in.’
Chief Inspector Allen, of the local police, had a fresh complexion and a big face, wide-set grey eyes which had an ingenuous look, a silky brown moustache, and a heavy jowl. When he smiled, it was as if he were making a special effort to be amiable, for his natural expression was almost mournful. He carried a Homburg hat, was dressed in a well-cut suit, and he looked warm.
‘Good morning,’ said Rollison.
‘Good morning, sir.’
Allen offered his card.
‘Police, eh? What’s up?’
‘You are Mr. Rollison, sir, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Mr. Rollison?’
Rollison chuckled.
‘Some might say so.’
‘I know, sir – the Toff,’ said Allen, who did not even try to smile. ‘I just wanted to make sure – you are that Mr. Rollison, aren’t you? Of London.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Very glad to make your acquaintance,’ said Allen. ‘I’d be grateful if you would answer a few questions.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Very good of you,’ said Allen. ‘Where were you last n
ight, Mr. Rollison?’
‘What time?’
‘Seven o’clock onwards, sir.’
‘I was here until eight-thirty, went off just afterwards, drove about for a couple of hours, finished up at Latchet’s Roadhouse about eleven, and stayed until two o’clock. Too late, Inspector, that’s why I’m not dressed yet.’
‘I understand. Were you alone, sir?’
‘I was not.’
‘Would you mind telling me the name of your companion?’
Rollison drew on his cigarette, regarded Allen with some amusement, yet knew that behind his stolid exterior there was a shrewd, alert mind; no one reached the rank of Chief Inspector without reasonable qualifications. Allen would do everything according to the rule book, but would do it well.
‘Not at all. Miss Marion Lane.’
‘The young lady in Room thirty-one.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Were you with her all the time, Mr. Rollison – from seven o’clock until you got back here at—what time would that be now?’
‘Two-thirty. We came straight back. No, I wasn’t with her all the time.’
Allen’s eyes lit up.
‘Thank you, sir. What time were you separated from the young lady?’
‘From seven forty-five until half past eight. She was changing. You know what women are!’
The light faded from Allen’s eyes.
‘Apart from that, were you with her all the time?’
‘Except for ten minutes at Latchet’s, when she went to do some repairs. No more than ten minutes – she hated to miss a dance.’
‘I see, sir. No doubt about any of this, is there?’
Rollison beamed.
‘Not the remotest shadow of doubt, Chief Inspector. Now be a friend, and tell me what it’s all about?’
‘I’m making enquiries, sir,’ said Allen, blank-faced. ‘About a Mr. Henry Keller, who registered at this hotel under the name of Edward Marvel – perhaps you met him.’
‘Casually.’
‘When did you last see him, sir?’
‘Now let me see,’ said Rollison, and pretended to concentrate. ‘It would be about half past eleven on Monday morning. I’d been for a swim, and he was having a walk near the sea. I just caught a glimpse of him. When I got back to the hotel, he’d left. What about him?’